Behind Enemy Lines
by Ainaof
Summary: John leaves the boys while he goes on a hunt. The only problem? No one knew the cabin was haunted when he left. Now the boys have a hunt of their own, which could be bad for both of them. Now complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine. Supernatural and the characters therein belong to the actors, writers, directors, producers, and technicians that bring it to life. Rated T (just in case). **

**This story has a few chapters, but I plan to publish one chapter per day, so the wait won't be too long. Reviews and criticism are always welcome if you have the time. Any typos, etc. are mine, because I didn't want to bother my fabulous reader (cause she is very, very busy). Thanks for reading!  
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"Behind Enemy Lines"

John re-arranged the items in the trunk of the Impala. He barked the usual orders at Dean as he readied himself to leave. "I won't be gone long. A week, maybe two. Check in with Bobby every few days, like always. You're going to have to do that on your way home from school, since there's no phone here. Outside the corner store is probably the best pay phone to use. You won't attract a lot of attention there. Take care of your brother." John glanced at his younger son, lingering on the stairs to the cabin.

Dean thought about the phone outside the corner store. Dangerous was his assessment. The few times he'd gone by the store there had been people hanging around, looking for drugs or sex or who knows what. It wasn't a place Dean wanted to go, never mind bring Sam. They would be exposed – targets.

He said, "The pay phone outside the library might be better. Sam's going to want to stop there every day anyway. No one will think twice about two kids using a phone outside a public library. It's a little closer to the house too, for when we have to walk to town on Saturday or Sunday. Would that be okay?" Dean presented his argument carefully, trying not to challenge his father while still changing his mind. John considered while he took the duffel from his older son and tossed in back seat. Dean waited.

With a curt nod, John said, "The library pay phone is acceptable. You're right that Sam will want to spend all his time there. Don't neglect his training – or yours – and make sure you protect the house. Lay salt lines, keep the weapons clean and loaded, don't draw any attention to yourselves. Enemy lines, Dean. Behind enemy lines. You've got to be both careful and smart."

John looked again at the sullen ten year old on the steps. "Sam, I know you've got the smart covered, but you need to be careful too. Do what Dean tells you and don't cause any trouble."

Anger flared in Sam's gaze and he started, "I never cause..." but Dean, positioned outside their father's line of sight, made a quick slash with his hand near his throat. Sam quieted. John turned to Dean suspiciously.

His eldest gave a quick nod and answered, "Yes, sir. We'll be fine, we know the drill."

"Don't get complacent," John said.

When Dean shook his head no, John relented. He studied Dean for a long, uncomfortable moment. Apparently finding what he was looking for, he opened his mouth, but shut it again without speaking.

Dean took a step forward and debated giving his father a hug, but John placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed. "You boys behave." He clasped Dean's shoulder a moment longer, smiling slightly. When he took a step toward the porch and Sam, his youngest son crossed his arms and moved back. Sighing, John studied his baby boy. Just before it became a staring contest, John turned to his eldest and said, "You're going be as tall as me pretty soon."

Dean grinned. "Already as tall as you, old man. Taller even. I'm going to be the tallest one in this family, just you wait."

Chuckling, John slid into the Impala's front seat. "You might want to have a word with Sam about that. I think he'll take that title before he's through. He's already 2 inches taller than you were at his age."

"Pipsqueak? Nah. He's an early bloomer. I'm big brother, always will be." A brilliant smile graced Dean's face as he held the door of the car open for his father. They both ignored Sam's annoyed huff behind them.

"We'll see." John waited for Dean to close the door so he could drive away, but Dean just stood there, fingers tight against the frame. After a moment, he said, "Son, it'll be fine," and gently tugged until Dean let go. John started the engine and said out the open window, "I'll see you both soon," then drove away.

Shoulders slumped, Dean said, "Take care of yourself, Dad," at the retreating bumper of the Chevy. He waved once and walked over to Sam. Slinging his arm over his brother's shoulders, Dean said, "C'mon kid. Let's get back inside. We can have Spaghettios and cookies for dinner."

Sam slid out from beneath Dean's arm. "Whatever. Just stop covering for him, Dean. He promised when he missed your birthday that he'd spend a few weeks with us after the next move. I should have know it was just a lie."

"Hey! Dad is going to help that family. He saves lives Sam. It's important," Dean said to his brother's retreating back.

Eyes alight with fury, Sam whirled around to face him. "I know it's important, Dean! But so are we! We're his sons! He's our father and he knows nothing about us. He doesn't know what we like or don't like, what we eat, what we're good at, what we think about, what we want to do when we grow up... All he knows is our names and where we stand in our training. There's more than that. There is!" Sam's anger burned itself out and he slumped on the porch step. He placed his forehead against his knobby knees and put his arms over his head. When he felt Dean's gentle touch on his shoulder, he leaned against his brother.

"I just worry, Dean. I worry that he won't come back. And sometimes I think maybe it would be better if he didn't. Then I hate myself for thinking that. I love Dad, I do. But every time he goes I get this sick feeling in my gut. When he takes you, it's even worse. I'm terrified that something will happen to you and I won't be there to help you. Like when you broke your arm last summer. I don't know what I would do if you weren't my brother."

"Puh-leeze. Listen, you little nerd, nothing is going to happen to me. Knock it off with that. I'm supposed to protect you, not the other way around – remember? I'm the big brother. So quit thinking you are going to get rid of me so easy, cause it ain't happening." Dean bumped shoulders with Sam, nearly pushing him over. "C'mon. Let's get inside. It's cold out here, and I for one, am hungry." He stood and held out a hand to Sam.

"You're always hungry," Sam muttered. But he let Dean shuffle him inside.

* * *

><p>The first night after their father left, Sam woke up in a cold sweat. He could have sworn he heard footsteps on the wooden porch outside. A glance to the right showed him Dean was still asleep, so he relaxed. If Dean didn't wake up, then Sam knew he must've imagined it. Every strange sound woke Dean, especially when Dad was gone. Only Sam could walk around the room without waking his brother; even their father's tread was unfamiliar enough to trigger a wary wakefulness from Dean. So if Dean wasn't awake now, everything was fine. Sam curled under the covers and fell asleep.<p>

Over the next weeks, little things continued to unnerve both boys. The bedroom windows were always in frostbitten in the morning. Once in a while, when they were outside training late and dusk darkened the sky, Sam would see a shadow from the corner of his eye. He ignored it, but noticed that Dean often turned to look as well. A few times, he woke in the middle of the night to find Dean standing by the icy window, peering out into the yard. Mutually ignoring what was happening, they triple checked the salt lines each night and hoped John would keep his promise to return soon.

* * *

><p>One night, Sam woke suddenly, startled by an unfamiliar sound. Lying motionless in bed for a moment or two, he listened until he heard it again. The wind moaned outside, caressing the edges of the house. Slipping from beneath the warm covers, he padded to the window. He took care not to wake Dean, sleeping in the bed next to his. Pulling the dingy gingham curtain aside, Sam gazed out. Snow still fell, occasionally whipping miniature tornados of white across the barren yard. It was like a cotton candy machine he'd seen at the carnival last year when he and Dean snuck out of the motel while Dad was off hunting. Wisps of spun sugar twisting in circles, lighter than air on his tongue. Sam wondered if snow tasted as good as cotton candy and smiled. Maybe as good, if not as sweet. It started earlier that night, shortly after he and Dean got home from school. Dean's only interest was in whether or not they would have school in the morning. Sam spent an hour by the window in the kitchen watching, until Dean asked if he was looking for the Snow Queen.<p>

Clouds blocked most of the moonlight, so Sam saw only the vague shapes of trees behind the small cabin. Swirls of snow danced on the windy gusts blowing through the yard. A rarely indulged imagination took flight with them. Imagination was bad on a hunt; Sam could frighten himself worse with 'what-ifs' than by actually confronting whatever monster they hunted. But this? There was nothing sinister in imagining himself out in the yard, surrounded by winds that could talk and snow spirits that wanted only to giggle and laugh in the chill. A burst of lightning arced overhead, illuminating the yard. The crack and rumble that followed shook the cabin deep through the bones of its walls. Dean snorted, rolled onto his stomach and tucked his head under the covers. Sam smiled again as the wind flung itself past the window where he stood, shrieking and seeping cold air through the joists to chill him. It was just so beautiful. Amazing really. Dad usually seemed to gravitate toward the warmer sections of the country once winter hit. This wasn't Sam's first time in a snowstorm, but it was probably the first time he could remember really understanding what the word blizzard meant. When he'd tried earlier to describe his awe, Dean laughed at him. Gently, rather than mockingly, but Sam was at the touchy age of ten, just starting to feel like he wasn't a kid anymore. Having his fourteen year old brother – no fifteen, Dean's birthday was two weeks ago – laughing at him was always annoying.

A second flash of lighting graced the sky, followed immediately by the percussive rumble of thunder. Sam's toes were getting numb, so he reluctantly decided to head back to bed. No school tomorrow. Even if there was, Dean would keep them home, rather than walk the three miles to get there. He checked the salt line on the windowsill reflexively and grasped the curtain to pull it shut. As he did, he noticed a figure standing along the tree line, about two hundred feet from the house. Frowning, he stepped closer to the window, pressing his face against the chilled glass. A branch snapped, succumbing to the weight of heavy snow, and fell, eerily silent, to the ground. The distraction was enough. Sam glanced away from the figure; when he looked back it was gone. He waited for few more minutes, searching the yard in each lightning flash. Eventually, he chalked it up to imagination and went back to bed. But he double checked every door, window lock, and salt line first.

And his hand stayed on the gun beneath his pillow as he slept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine. Supernatural and the characters therein belong to the actors, writers, directors, producers, and technicians that bring it to life. Rated T (just in case). **

Chapter Two

The next morning, Dean bounced on Sam's bed, chanting, "Snow day! Snow day!"

They made celebratory pancakes together, goofing around at the same time. It was a behavior growing infrequent as they aged. During the previous summer, Dean decided he needed to be an adult. Last April, just before Sammy's tenth birthday, their father officially told the youngest Winchester about monsters in the night. Really, the kid had known for years, but everyone pretended otherwise. With his youngest in on the big secret, John insisted Sam train in earnest, plus research and go on hunts once in a while.

The 'Sam on hunts' part frightened Dean half to death; not that he would admit it. Having Sam training and researching was nothing new, he'd been doing that for years – since he could walk practically. But hunting? Seeing some creature towering over his ten year old brother never failed to make Dean's guts clench. Never mind the ones preparing to slap him into next week, shred him, or just flat out kill him. Sammy just looked so small next to those things. It made protecting him so much harder on a hunt. Though Dean was determined to show his father he could set a good example for his baby brother, he also thought perhaps the responsibility of watching out for Sam would be easier if he felt more grown-up. So Dean bluffed. He'd discovered early on that if you acted a certain way long enough, people either accepted it as truth, or you became exactly what you were pretending to be in the first place. Bluffing in the face of concerned adults had helped the Winchester boys avoid countless scrapes. Thus, for the past few months, he acted as if he were thirty instead of fifteen, hoping to trick his brain into accepting the pretense as reality. It hadn't worked so far. Generally it just annoyed Sam, who consequently reminded Dean he was fifteen every chance he got, in the annoying adolescent whine he'd developed lately. Dean shook his head. Not the kid's fault. Sammy got what little childhood he had left yanked away, thanks to Dad announcing the monsters in the closet were real: here's a gun to help deal with them. Oh, and better check under the bed too. Dean soothed Sam's nightmares for a week after Dad finished talking to him.

He sighed and dried the dishes from breakfast. Next to him, Sam washed the pan. Baby brother was growing again; his pants and shirt sleeves were getting short. When Dad got back, he'd have to point out that it was time to get some new clothes for Sam. They finished up the dishes and Dean disappeared into the bedroom for a minute.

When he returned, Sam was reading on the couch. He asked, "So what do you want to do today, kiddo?" When Sam looked at him, Dean waggled his eyebrows at his younger brother, grinning at the same time.

"I dunno. Finish reading my book. Watch a little tv. We could play some cards maybe, if you want." Sam shrugged and focused again on the book in his lap, hair flopping over his eyes.

Dean moaned as if in pain. "Aaahh! Come on. There's snow outside. Lots of it. We should shovel out the front and do a little training. But once we finish that, we can have some fun. Snow forts, snowball fights, snow angels. Hell, I'll even help you build a snowman if you want. Finish the book later, when there isn't fresh, fluffy, not often experienced by us_ snow _blanketing the ground. Jeesh. What is wrong with you?" Dean flopped on the couch, giving Sam a fraction of a second's warning to move his legs or get them crushed. He snatched the book from his brother's hands, tossing it behind him on the floor.

"Snow, Sammy. We should go outside and have fun."

"Hey!" Sam scrambled over the back of the couch and retrieved his book. "Don't toss my books around. I don't toss your guns around." He attempted to smooth down the now bent corner of the cover.

"That's because if you toss my guns around they might kill you. Even if they don't, I will. Your books aren't going to kill me, except maybe with boredom. And you're still too scrawny to do me any damage."

Predictably, Sam rolled his eyes. A pissed off expression graced his face for a moment. Looking his brother right in the eye he said, "Haha. You're hysterical."

"You know, I'm going to name that face you keep making. You better not make it at Dad either."

"Yeah? Why not?" Sam unconsciously puffed out his chest.

Dean just laughed. "Because it's the same face he makes when he's pissed off about something and if he thinks you're making it at him? Whew... let's just say training sessions will be intense for a few days."

"Please, they can't get any worse than they already are with him. No matter how I do, he wants better. My bruises have bruises from getting tossed and thrown around while I'm learning moves. What else could he do?"

A moment of quiet followed, then Dean spoke in a flat tone, hiding his face from his brother as he spoke. "How about take you out to the woods and dump you there with nothing but a knife? Then tell you to find your own way back to the motel? How about not telling you someone died because you screwed up? But really, you know anyway because the look on his face says it all. Or he might just say real quiet, 'I'm disappointed in you, son. I thought you were better than this.' You want him to do any of that to you?"

Sam's mouth literally hung open at his brother's words. More than the shock of Dean actually discussing feelings was what he revealed.

Finally, the thoughts bouncing around in Sam's head settled enough for him to ask, "Dad did all those things? To you? Where was I? When was this?"

"You stayed with Bobby for a bit this summer, remember? Dad and I hunted a werewolf. I screwed up. Someone else paid the price." He heaved a sigh, then stood quickly. "C'mon, Sam. We should go shovel the front in case Dad comes back or anybody else shows up. Then we can go have a snowball fight or something in the back." Dean went to the small room the two boys shared and began digging through his duffel bag for warmer clothes.

Just like that, Sam knew that the discussion was over. The fact that Dean shared at all was telling enough. Whatever happened bothered him, a lot.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, the front steps and walkway were clear. There wasn't really a driveway for the cabin, so they'd done their best to make a path to the road. Since the road was out of the way, it hadn't been plowed yet, but Dean insisted. Sam didn't really care much, shoveling made his shoulders ache, but it was a good kind of ache.<p>

Dean declared it training time for a little while, since they were both sweaty from shoveling anyway, then lunch. Sam didn't complain. Since Dad was gone more often than not, Dean had taken over a lot of his training. Better Dean than Dad, Sam thought. Dean was tough, but he rarely yelled. When Sam did something wrong, Dean would show him how to do it right. Usually he explained why it was important as he showed his little brother the proper technique. He understood instinctively that the why was just as important as the how to Sammy. When Sam understood why he was doing something, he generally learned faster and was better at it.

Right now, he was trying to teach Sam the finer points of a good old-fashioned beat down. Because sometimes you just had to fight it out. With a whumpf, Sam went down hard in a snow drift, buried slightly.

"You did that on purpose!" He yelled indignantly, struggling to get up out of the snow. Slapping away Dean's outstretched hand, he gave up trying to rise.

"Well, duh. That's why they call it training. Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah. It's just kinda nice here. A little warm actually. Cocooned maybe. Comfortable."

"Such a geek. Get up before you freeze."

"Why don't you come make me?" Sam challenged.

"Oh-ho! Look who thinks he's a tough guy now. What are you gonna …" There was a muffled, "Ouch!" as Dean fell face first into the drift, courtesy of Sam's leg sweep.

Sam laughed when his brother pushed himself up and sat back on his heels. Snowflakes covered the cap Dean wore and clung to his eyebrows and eyelashes. The heat of his skin melted it and rivulets made their way down his cheeks.

"You think that's funny?" Dean spat a mouthful of snow off to the side.

"Y-yes," Sam said, then snorted with laughter.

"This is funny." With a lunge, Dean pinned his brother and began shoveling snow at him. Handfuls went down his shirt, some smooshed into his hair. Shrieking and laughing, Sam fought back as best he could, trying to get as much snow on Dean as his brother was getting on him. Eventually, they wore each other out.

Dean stood and extended his hand to Sam again. "C'mon. Let's get inside to warm up and dry off." He tilted his head. "If you were a little taller, you could be a snow yeti."

Sam grabbed the proffered hand and let Dean haul him to his feet. "If Bigfoot doesn't exist, that means yeti don't exist either. Doesn't it? Or would it be yetis? Which one is the plural?"

"Dorkface, do I look like I know? Or even care? I'm sure you'll look it up first chance you get. Let me know what you find out. Now, inside. Dry clothes and lunch, let's go."

Dean insisted they both take showers to warm up. For lunch, Sam heated up canned soup while Dean made grilled cheese sandwiches. Hot chocolate was also on the menu. After eating, weapons training time was declared. It was Sam's job to take apart his gun, identify each piece by name, and put it back together. Then he had to clean it. They decided not to risk target practice outside. The sound might carry farther in the crisp air, and Dean didn't want to chance someone hearing the shots. As they sat companionably at the table cleaning the guns, Dean quizzed Sam on the proper way to kill the monsters they might encounter.

"Ghost," he said.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Find the remains. Salt and burn. Everybody knows that."

"You think if I asked that little friend of yours from class, Joey-whatever-his-name-is, that he would know what to do if he saw a ghost? No, he'd piss his pants and trip over his own feet running away."

"Like a normal person would." This time Sam added pursed lips to the eye roll.

Silently praying for the patience not to kill his little brother, Dean asked, "How do you protect yourself from a ghost while you're looking for the bones?"

"Stand behind you," Sam joked.

Dean smiled, he couldn't help it. The kid was just so damn cute when he was trying to be funny. Besides, he was right. Dean would always protect his little brother.

Still, he wanted to make sure. "Or?" He prompted.

"Or Dad?"

"Sam, quit being a goofball and answer the damn question." Dean scowled, but it quickly morphed back into a grin. The kid was funny today.

Sighing heavily, Sam said, "Make a salt circle or use iron. They can't get past the salt. The iron disrupts them and makes them dissipate."

"Uh, no geek speak. Iron makes them go away for a little bit."

"That's what I said, Dean."

"Yeah, in geek speak. Talk like a human."

"You talk like a caveman." Sam stuck out his tongue and put his thumb against his nose, wiggling his fingers at Dean. When he pulled his hand away, a smudge of gun oil stayed behind. Dean lost it. "You got something on your nose," he managed to get out before the laughing started. He kept going until he couldn't breathe and tears streamed down his face. At first, Sam huffed and acted annoyed, but eventually he gave in and laughed too. As Sam wiped the oil away, Dean stopped laughing enough to speak.

"Payback's a bitch, huh, baby brother?" Dean mopped the tears from his face with the tail of his shirt.

"Payback for what, exactly?"

"Messing with your truly awesome big brother."

Sam repeated his face from earlier that morning.

Dean said, "What? Are you trying to patent that look? Get it outta your system, because Dad will be back from the hunt soon and you'll be screwed."

"Dad told us he'd be back last week."

"He got held up. It's not easy, working cases alone."

Sam ignored him and went to plop on the couch, retrieving his book on the way.

Dean tried again. "At least it means we get to stay in one school for some extra time. We've been here a month and a half, thanks to the different hunts Dad's been working. Longest we've been at one school in a while."

Flipping open the book, Sam muttered, "Mm-hmm."

"You want to go outside and have a snowball fight? We could call it training. Or build a snowman? I did tell you I'd help you with that." Dean changed the subject, trying to ease past the hurt they both felt.

Sam looked at him, gauging a response. Standing, he moved toward the door and began putting on his boots. "I will bury you in an avalanche of snowballs," he declared.

"Big words, little man. Let's see you prove it." Dean joined him by the door and they armed themselves to go out in the cold.

* * *

><p>The snowball fight of the century lasted nearly two hours. Then they built the promised snowman, although it looked a lot more like a snow monster. Dean turned building it into an anatomy lesson for Sam. The head was deformed from the number of times it had been lopped off. Decapitation lessons. Holes riddled its gut courtesy of knife lessons. The encroaching darkness finally called an end to the day.<p>

As they went inside, Dean said, "Good thing snowmen are self-repairing."

"Technically they aren't. We had to keep putting his head back on." For the second time that day, Sam shrugged out of his wet coat.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "True enough. Hey, your hair is soaking wet – go get a towel and dry off. I'll start dinner."

"What're we having?" Sam asked as he headed for the bathroom.

"Mac and cheese with hot dogs," Dean answered.

Sam made a face in the bathroom mirror, but didn't say anything. He knew Dean had gone shopping just before the storm. Everyone at school was talking about how their parents were stocking up, and Dean decided he needed to do the same. So there was plenty of food in the house. But mac and cheese was a lot easier to stock up on when they were stretching out the money Dad left them. So Sam wouldn't complain, not about this. Dean did his best.

"You want your hot dogs boiled or toasted?" His brother shouted from the kitchen.

"Both," Sam called back. Dean muttered in the kitchen about princesses, making Sam grin. After drying his hair with a towel, he decided to change his shirt again too, since it was damp. He pulled it off and hung it over the shower curtain rod. Then he went to the bedroom for something dry, ignoring Dean's wolf-whistle as he passed through the main room. Randomly, he grabbed a shirt and tugged it on. Dressed warmly now, Sam stood before the window, as he had the previous evening. In the dim twilight, he could see that the snowman's head had fallen off again; it rested on the ground staring vacantly into the woods. Evidence of their epic battle was all over the yard: small walls, piles of ammunition, blobs of snow spattered against trees. Another boy about Sam's age stood by the edge of the woods surveying the damage. Sam waved at him and he waved back. Then Sam noticed the boy didn't have a coat on. This time, it definitely wasn't his imagination.

"Dean!" He yelled.

The tone did it. His brother didn't even question it, just came running to the bedroom, pistol drawn, looking for signs of trouble.

Sam pointed at the window. "Do you see him?"

Dean moved to stand in front of the window, pushing his brother behind him. There was a boy about Sam's age out by the trees. He waved to Dean. Sam waved back.

"Don't encourage him!" Dean slapped Sam's hand down.

"Why not? He seems friendly."

"He's not Casper. It's a ghost, not a cartoon." Dean pulled the shotgun loaded with rock salt out from beneath the bed. "You put the salt line on the door when we came back in, right?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Lemme go check." Sam ran out to the main room.

"Sam!" Dean chased after him. His little brother was standing in front of the door, smiling.

"I remembered."

"You did. That's good, Sam." Dean ruffled his brother's hair gently, then pulled him away from the door. "C'mon. Dinner should be ready soon. Get those hot dogs out of the water and put them under the broiler if you want 'em toasted." He checked the salt lines on all the windows, then placed the shotgun on the kitchen table. A glance out the window showed that the ghost appeared to be gone. Going outside to check wasn't a consideration. He wouldn't risk leaving Sam inside, defenseless and alone. Instead, he tried to act as normal as possible to keep Sam from panicking. But while they ate dinner he kept an eye on the door and the windows.

Sam knew that seeing the ghost worried Dean. His brother kept staring at the windows. He ate, but mechanically, without his usual gusto. The rock salt loaded shotgun rested on the table between them, pointed at the door. When the wind kicked up outside, Dean made a face and got up to look out the window, taking the shotgun with him.

Quietly, Sam asked, "Is the little boy still out there?"

"No. He's gone. He left before we sat down to eat. It's snowing again though. Our snowball fight will be Pompeii soon and we'll need to shovel again in the morning."

Sam gathered up the dishes and carried them to the sink to clean them. As he soaped and rinsed, he watched Dean. "You're worried, aren't you? About the ghost?"

"Everything will be fine, Sam. It can't get in here. The salt lines keep it out. We can make a salt circle around your bed tonight if it will make you feel better. In the morning, we'll go to the library and see if we can figure this out. We can call Bobby on a pay phone and see what he thinks. He'll let Dad know when he checks in too."

"I'm not worried. Except that I think I saw a different ghost last night."

"What? When? Why didn't you tell me?" Dean's attention was finally diverted away from the window by Sam's admission.

"Last night, while you were sleeping, the wind woke me. I got up and watched the snow fall for a bit. Just before I went back to bed, I thought I saw someone by the trees. It was too tall to be that boy. But a branch broke off and I got distracted. When I looked back there wasn't anything there." Sam placed the last dish on the drying rack and turned to face his brother.

Dean asked, "Why didn't you wake me up to tell me this?"

Sam shrugged. "I figured that I imagined it and that you'd laugh at me, or be mad 'cause I woke you up. I did check all the salt lines before I went back to bed. We were safe. I had my gun under my pillow and I knew you did too."

The fifteen year old shook his head, not sure what concerned him the most: that his brother didn't want to make him mad by waking him up for a possible ghost sighting, or that he considered it perfectly normal to sleep with a gun under the pillow. Or any of the other things wrong with that last statement.

He went over to the couch and sat, still facing the door. After putting the shotgun on the coffee table, he waved his brother over. Sam came slowly, almost afraid he was going to be yelled at. Dean didn't usually yell at him, but sometimes, if he really screwed up, exceptions were made.

Dean waited until his brother met his eyes, then said, "Next time, I want you to wake me up right away. I might be mad for a minute about losing sleep, but once I know why, I'll get over it. You did the right thing checking the salt lines and the guns. But your most important line of defense is me, and I can't protect you if I don't know what's going on, okay?"

"Okay, Dean. I get it. Do you promise to wake me up too, no matter what?"

"What do I need to do that for?"

"How else can I watch your back? You'll be so busy protecting me you won't watch out for yourself. So I gotta do it."

"Oh, I didn't think of that." Dean smiled at him. "Okay, Mighty Mouse. It's a deal. If anything happens, I'll wake you up. Promise."

Sam nodded gravely, then ruined the effect by bouncing on the couch. "So what're we going to about the ghost of the little boy?"

"Nothing. We'll be careful tonight, then tomorrow, like I said, we'll take a walk over to the library to see what we can find out. After we figure out who he is, we'll salt and burn him. End of story."

"Cool. Wanna watch tv?" As far as Sam was concerned, the problem was taken care of.

"Sure. Go ahead and find something." Dean ignored the television, watching the door instead. Sam didn't notice, wrapped up in some nature documentary. Gradually, his head slipped lower until it was resting on the couch arm. Dean considered carrying him into the bedroom, then decided against it. Dean knew if he sat on the bed, he might fall asleep himself, so it was better to stay out here. But leaving Sam alone in the bedroom while he stayed out here wasn't an option either.

"Sorry buddy, guess you're sleeping on the couch tonight," he said to his little brother.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, Dean's head was dropping onto his chest as he fought to stay awake. The full day of shoveling and fresh air was taking its toll. When he drifted off for the second time, he got up and went to the kitchen sink. He drank a glass of water, then splashed some on his face. When he lifted his head, he looked out the window. The frowning face of an older man stared back at him. Dean gasped and fell backward onto his butt. He scrambled back to the couch and grabbed for the shotgun, waking up Sammy in his haste.<p>

"Huh? What's going on?" The youngster asked, still half-asleep.

Dean almost answered, "Nothing," but remembered his promise and said instead, "There's a different ghost outside now. He was just at the window."

Sam sat bolt upright on the couch, eyes wide. "Which window?"

"Kitchen." Dean had a good grip on the shotgun and made his way cautiously back to the sink. He peered out the window, but saw nothing. Sam shadowed him, holding a crowbar.

"Where did you get that?" Dean asked, indicating the crowbar.

"Closet. Dad put it there before he left."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Nice. Good call."

A smile graced Sam's face briefly, but it slipped as soon as he looked out the window. "Dean, there isn't anything there."

"Yeah, I can see that. Not sure where it went. The snow makes it hard to see detail. Ugh. Feels like I'm in the middle of a snow globe that some idiot just shook."

"I think the snow is pretty." Sam moved away from the kitchen window and headed for the one in the main room.

Dean snorted. "You would. It's useful for getting a day off from school. It's fun to have snowball fights. Other than that, it's a pain. You gotta shovel, it's hard to walk, hard to drive."

"That doesn't mean it isn't nice to look at." Sam carefully pushed the curtain back, making sure not to disturb the salt line. He looked out the window and saw the figure from the night before by the trees. "Uh, Dean? Is that the ghost you saw? Because I'm pretty sure it's the one I saw last night."

Swearing, Dean joined him at the window.

"Yeah, that's him. So we've got two ghosts on our hands. Great. Just great."

"Well, it's better than three, right?" Sam asked pragmatically.

Dean reached over to ruffle his brother's hair. "Yeah, squirt. You make a good point there." After a pause, he continued, "Okay, here's the plan. We're going make a salt circle around the couch, then sit tight until morning. Then we shovel out and head into town. We'll call Bobby on the way to the library."

"Works for me." Sam grabbed a sack of salt from the supply duffel and headed for the couch. He quickly poured a thick line of salt around the couch, carefully making the circle large enough that nothing outside the circle could touch them if they were on the couch. When he was finished, they sat at opposite ends of the couch, facing each other. Dean kept the shotgun in his lap, muzzle pointed at the floor. Sam cradled the crowbar.

"You know Sam, it's okay for you to go back to sleep," Dean told him.

"Nope. I'm going to stay awake and watch your back," Sam replied with all the seriousness an almost eleven year old could muster.

They were both tired but relieved when the snow stopped around dawn and the morning sun finally peeked through the windows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine. Supernatural and the characters therein belong to the actors, writers, directors, producers, and technicians that bring it to life. Rated T (just in case). **

**Many cyber cookies (or the treat of your choice) to my reviewers LeighAnnWallace and winchestersunited. Thanks! You are too kind!  
><strong>

Chapter Three

Shoveling went faster than Dean hoped. He chalked it up to being awake early and anxious. Both of them jumped at the slightest sound while they worked, keeping an eye on the woods around the house. After they finished, Dean insisted on going inside, eating, and changing into dry clothes. Then they trekked toward town. There was a pay phone just outside the library, so Dean popped a few quarters in and dialed Bobby's number.

Gruffly, Bobby said, "It better be good to wake me up this early."

"It's Dean. And Sam."

"What's wrong?"

"Who says anything has to be wrong? Maybe we're just calling to check in and see if you've heard from Dad." Dean smiled tersely at Sam, who rolled his eyes and mouthed, 'why bother?'

"You're calling at zero-dark-thirty and pretending nothing's wrong. That alone tells me it's bad. Besides, you checked in two days ago and no, I still haven't heard from your father. Now tell me what's going on. Are either you or Sam hurt?"

Dean seemed to sag against the walls of the phone booth. "No, Bobby, we're both fine. Sam's right here with me."

"Hi, Bobby." Sam leaned forward to call into the phone.

Bobby sighed. "Okay, good. So what's going on?"

It was Dean's turn to sigh. "It's the cabin Dad left us in. There's a ghost. Actually, two. A little kid and some old cadaver guy."

"I can't believe your Daddy left you someplace that's haunted." Bobby all but groaned the word haunted, then asked, "But you've been there for weeks, so why are the ghosts just showing up now? This is the first you've seen them, right?"

"Yeah, it's the first we've seen them. There's been noises and stuff, nothing serious. I figured it was just the house settling or something. Maybe they're recent dead..."

Sam tugged on his arm. "No, not recent. Their clothes were wrong for that. It's the snow. They both showed up during the snowstorms. I think it's got something to do with that."

"Did you catch that, Bobby?" Dean asked, sliding his arm around his brother's slight shoulders and pulling him closer in the phone booth. A few men stumbled out of a run down apartment across the street and Dean instinctively moved so that Sam was hidden from view. The men started shoveling the steps of the building and the sidewalk.

"Not really. What did he say?"

"Sam thinks the ghosts might have something to do with the snowstorms. It's snowed the last two nights. The ghosts showed up during the snowstorms. Before that, I would say there hasn't been much sign of them. And Sam's right about the clothes. Unless they're re-enactors for something, the clothes they were wearing are too old for them to be recent ghosts."

"How did they act? They try and hurt either of you?"

"The little boy keeps his distance. Sam saw him first. Waved at him and the kid waved back. The old guy was looking in the window when I saw him. Sam saw him too, two nights ago. Here, I'll put him on." Dean pushed the phone at his little brother and scanned the street. People were starting to come out into the weather, beginning the process of cleaning up.

"Hi, Bobby."

"Sam. Tell me what you saw."

"I was watching the snow fall two nights ago. I saw a man standing by the trees outside, near the house. A branch broke off a tree, I think from the snow, and when I looked back the man was gone. I waited, but he didn't come back. So, I checked the salt lines around the house and went back to bed. With my gun." Sam's voice trailed off at the end, waiting to be yelled at.

There was a pause, then Bobby spoke quietly. "I'm glad you checked the salt lines and made sure you and your brother were safe before you went to sleep. That was a smart thing to do. But next time, wake up Dean and tell him about what you saw, okay? He needs to know about these things when they happen. You can't keep trying to take on everything by yourself. Promise me that, Sam?"

Shock kept the youngster quiet for a long moment. Glancing up at his brother, he nodded his head, then realized Bobby wouldn't see that.

"I can do that. I'm sorry," he whispered into the phone.

"Nothing to be sorry for, Sam. Your reaction was good. I'm just giving you a way to make it better. Okay?"

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Welcome. Put your brother back on."

Wordlessly, Sam pushed the receiver toward his brother.

Dean took the phone, talking as soon as it was at his ear.

"We're at the library right now. It should open soon, unless the snow delays things. If that happens, Sam and I should be able to break in. They don't have a security system, right?" He directed that question at his brother, who shook his head no. "Yeah, no security, so we should be able to get in and find out what we need. Unless we need to go to town hall for records."

Sam interrupted, "Most of the town records are stored here. This place isn't big enough for a separate records building."

"Sam says the records we need should be here. I see someone going up to the entrance of the library. It looks like one of the librarians I've seen the other times we were here, so we're going to go. I'll let you know what we find out with the research, okay?"

"Call me back when you finish. I'll see what I can find out from here and pack a bag. I'm going to come down there and join you. First I need to get someone to watch the phones though. Should call the number your Daddy left too, although I don't think it'll do much good. Just a message place."

Dean could hear rustles as Bobby moved around, gathering things together and looking for something.

"Don't bother calling Dad. By the time you get a hold of him, Sam and I will have this taken care of. You don't need to come out either. We've got this under control."

"I know you do. But I'm planning on coming anyway. Call me when you finish your research."

"Will do, Bobby. Thanks."

* * *

><p>A few hours later, Sam set a few books down on the table where he and Dean settled to research. Dean lifted up his head and blinked away sleep.<p>

"Having fun working on your nap?" Sam asked.

"I was awake. Just resting my eyes."

"Uh-huh. Wipe the drool off the table." Sam flipped open one of the books he'd gathered and began to search for something.

Dean looked at the table and saw nothing. After making a face at his brother, he asked, "What did you find out?" He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and tried to focus.

"Some local legends and stuff. I'm trying to sort out fact from fiction now. I'm looking to see who owned the property in the 1880s. There was a bad blizzard in 1888. Maybe that's what happened to our ghosts."

"Okay. How can I help?"

Sam looked at the spines of the books, then passed one to him. "Check this one for death records. Mid to late March, 1888. Weather related deaths, probably. If I find a name I'll let you know."

They searched silently through the books. Eventually Sam found a name connected to the property in the right time frame.

"Okay, so it looks like a guy named Jeremiah Cohenbash owned the house and land in the late 1800's. He bought everything in 1876. Did you see that name in the death records?"

Dean flipped back a few pages in the registry. "Yeah. I saw that name. I noticed because there were a whole bunch of people with that same name listed." He ran his finger down a page, then slapped the book down on the table, tapping it. "Here. There are seven names listed with the same last name and the same date of death. March 23rd, 1888. Jeremiah is the first name, aged 37. Then Elizabeth, aged 32. Mathias, age 11. Robert, age 7. Sarah, age 5. Grace, age 2. Benjamin, 8 weeks."

"It was a whole family. Their whole family died. The boy we saw must be Mathias. He's my age, just about. What could have happened to them?" Sam gazed at his brother questioningly.

Dean shrugged. "Time to find a local newspaper for March, 1888."

"The microfiche machine is over this way."

Sam led the way to the machine, stopping along the way for the appropriate microfiche, making up some story for the librarian about a school history project. She smiled at him and left them alone, after making sure they understood how the microfiche machine worked.

Sam scrolled quickly through the newspaper, starting a few days before March 23rd. The headline for the paper on March 27th told them everything they needed to know.

"Holy crap," Dean whispered as he stared at the headline.

"Yeah," Sam whispered back as he hit the print button on the machine.

They both waited in silence as the copy slowly churned out. Sam took it and began reading.

"Father butchers family during snowstorm. Jeremiah Cohenbash apparently caught cabin fever during our last series of blizzards. Trapped in their cabin on the outskirts of town, the Cohenbash family was running low on food. The patriarch of the family apparently ran low on patience as well. Authorities are unclear on what prompted the attacks, but on the night of March 23rd, Cohenbash murdered his entire family with the same axe he used to chop their firewood. It is believed that he killed his wife first, then systematically killed the children, beginning with the youngest, sleeping in a crib beside his parent's bed."

Dean said, "And now he's haunting the place. But what about the kid? I don't get why he's there. Unless maybe the dad didn't kill them? Maybe this Mathias kid did and the cops got it wrong."

Sam looked skeptical. "It's possible, I suppose. But looking at the two ghosts, which one do you think is the more likely mass murderer of his entire family?" His brother frowned, then rolled his eyes.

"Well, when you put it like that..." Dean said, "But Dad always warns us that looks can be deceiving. Just because something looks cute and harmless doesn't mean it is. Hey, just think of the tribble thingies on that re-run of Star Trek we watched last week."

"That was a television show," Sam responded.

"Gremlins. Look cute and harmless, eat your face off."

"A movie."

"Well, dammit Sam, nothing in the real world – the hunting world – looks cute and harmless, except maybe you. Something might look human and harmless, but we both know there's no such thing. So I have to use movies and tv shows to prove my point."

"You just disproved your point."

"Oh, shut up, Sam."

Sam stuck out his tongue, earning a muttered, "Real mature," from his older brother.

Dean pulled the news article away from Sam and said, "We need to figure out where he's buried so that we can get back to the cabin and take care of this before nightfall."

"Yeah. I think that's going to be a problem." Sam turned back to the microfiche reader.

"Why?"

"Because of this," Sam answered, pointing to the screen.

Dean leaned over his brother's shoulder and read the article he pointed at. He smothered a curse, then said, "In the woods? That's the best they could do? The bodies are buried in the woods on the property?" He pushed the chair away from the microfiche machine, regarding Sam with bleary eyes.

"Well – crap. Just crap."

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. Crap."

They sat in silence. Dean stared into space, trying to think of a solution to the problem. Leaving the cabin wasn't an option because... it just wasn't. You didn't run from problems. Face them, fight them, take them down or die trying. That was how a Winchester did it. Except he needed to make sure Sam was safe. They needed to call Bobby again.

Sam scanned more articles on the microfiche reader, looking for more clues. Finally, he found something. It was small, but at this point, he knew anything might help.

"The bodies were buried near water," he said over his shoulder.

It took Dean a moment to respond. "Huh?"

"This article says there was a stream on the property. It created a small pond and Mrs. Cohenbash, umm, Elizabeth, told her friend that she wanted to be buried there. The paper says the whole family was buried according her wishes." Sam printed the page out.

"Good work, shrimp. We'll have to check land surveys on the property and see if we can find the stream they mention."

"Help me put this stuff away and we can go do that."

* * *

><p>An hour later they were outside the library, printouts and copies of the land survey in hand. Inside the pay phone booth, Sam huddled against Dean a little. The temperature was dropping. They spoke briefly with Bobby, filling him in on the details of everything they'd discovered. Dean assured him that he didn't need to drive all the way to see them, Bobby assured them that he most certainly would.<p>

"I want you boys to find another place to stay tonight. Can you do that?" Bobby asked.

Dean shook his head, even as he responded, "I don't think so. The whole reason we're in the cabin is because there aren't any motels around here. And I don't have enough money left to get a place anyway. Plus," he looked outside the booth and frowned, "it's starting to snow again. Sam and I need to get back to the cabin before it really starts blowing bad."

There was some static as Bobby slipped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and swore. He came back on and asked, "You got enough salt and supplies to protect yourselves?"

After giving the question a moment of serious thought, Dean said, "Yes. We should be okay."

"I'll be there shortly. By morning, hopefully."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"You boys keep yourselves safe, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

Bobby sighed. "Okay, son. Get going. I'll see you soon as I can."

* * *

><p>The walk back to the cabin was miserable. Because of the snow falling, it took twice as long as it should. They tried running, both to stay warm and get there faster, but the ground was too slick. After Sam fell twice and Dean once, they decided walking was safer. By the time they made it back, nightfall was closing in.<p>

"Get out of those clothes and into a hot shower. I'll make sure all the salt lines are good. Then I'll make us something to eat." Dean shoved Sam toward the bathroom.

"You need to put on dry clothes and get warm too."

"I will once I take care of everything."

Sam froze in place. "No." He glared at Dean.

"What?"

"We'll both check the salt lines, then get out of the wet clothes. We can both take a shower to warm up and then we can make dinner together."

"First of all, you're 10. You don't get to boss me around. Second of all, your plan is just stupid. It makes more sense for me to get things started while you're in the shower and then take my shower after everything else is done."

"It's not stupid. Your way means you could get sick. Plus it means we aren't together, which means I can't watch your back. And you promised." Sam remained stock still, now regarding Dean with serious and pleading eyes. Dean started to shake his head, and the pleading doubled.

"You promised," Sam said.

Dean felt his resolve weaken. But who could blame him? Sometimes saying no to Sam felt like kicking a puppy. It was just something no decent person ever wanted to do. "Fine," he said. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "Go check the kitchen window, and the back window. I'll get the front door and the front window. Then we'll meet in the bedroom, check that window, push the beds together and put a salt circle around them. Just in case. Then I'll change while you check the bathroom window and shower. I'll check the salt circle around the couch and start dinner. You can finish while I shower. Does that plan work for you, Major Tom?"

"Yep. Let's go." Sam nodded and got to work.  
>Ten minutes later, all the salt lines were checked and the house was as secure as they could make it. By the time Sam was out of the shower and dressed in dry clothes, dinner was well underway and Dean was dry.<p>

"I'll finish dinner. Go take a hot shower and get warm," Sam told his brother.

"I'm fine," Dean answered.

"No. Your fingertips are blue and you're pale. You need to get warm." Sam tried to stare him down, looking so much like their father that Dean grinned, which only made Sam scowl harder. Holding up his hands in surrender, Dean said, "Okay, okay. I'm going. Don't let anything burn."

The dinner dishes were cleaned and put away. Both boys were sitting on the salt surrounded couch, watching television, dozing really. Lack of sleep the night before was catching up with them. Sam succumbed first, pillowing his head on the arm of the couch. Dean wedged the shotgun between himself and the couch arm, pointing to the floor. So far, except for the storm outside, it had been quiet. When he started to fall asleep sitting up, he didn't to stop himself. If he didn't get at least a little sleep, he'd be useless tomorrow. He knew one of them should be keeping watch, since there was nothing else they could do tonight, but somehow his fuzzy thinking couldn't think of a solution. Sleep, his tired brain kept telling him.

When the rattling woke him up, he realized he'd been 'dozing' for a few hours. It was a little after midnight. The noise disturbed Sam as well. He was bolt upright on his side of the couch, grasping the crowbar so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Easy there, Sammy. Take it easy." Dean tried to be soothing but knew it was a losing battle when he was reaching for the shotgun filled with rock-salt shells.

"The wind?" Sam looked around the cabin, searching for the source of the sound.

"Could have been. You stay here while I go check."

"Nyuh-uh."

Glaring at Sam, Dean motioned for him to stay on the couch. His little brother just glared right back, following behind. Dean sighed, but kept his mouth shut. Arguing with Sam when he made up his mind was like trying to dance with lightning: incredibly stupid and potentially deadly.

"Only ten years old and already acting like he owns the joint..." Dean muttered under his breath.

"You say something?"

"Nope. Nothing at all."

They advanced to the front window, moving slowly and cautiously. Sam gripped the crowbar while Dean led with the shotgun. A slight tug on the curtain revealed that there was nothing to be seen in the yard. The door rattled again, more violently than the previous time.

"What do you think is out there?" Sam whispered.

"If we're lucky, it's a door to door salt salesman looking for a place to ride out the storm. If we're really lucky, it's the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders and they'll need some help warming up." Dean smiled at his own joke.

"Gross. I'm ten. And you just turned fifteen. The Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders are not going to be interested in anything you can do." Sam grimaced, distracted momentarily from the danger.

"Yeah." Dean scoffed. "The fact you just said that proves you're only ten. Someday, Sammy, you will appreciate all life has to offer." Dean looked at his brother for a beat, then added, "well, maybe, with a lot of help from your big brother."

The door shaking against its hinges overrode Sam's protest. The tempo of the rattle increased, growing more tenacious as the bolts began to slowly ease out of the hinges.

Sam's eyes got wide. He said, "If those bolts come out, there'll be nothing holding the door on."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, so? The thing still can't come in. We'll just go in the salt circle. Or if we get sick of looking at it we can go in the bedroom's salt circle, and make a salt line across the doorway."

"If the door comes down it's going to get really cold in here. And it's windy outside. The wind will blow the salt lines away. It won't be safe in here anymore."

Under his breath, Dean swore as he realized his brother was right. "Sammy, gimme the crowbar. Take the gun." They switched and Dean slammed the edge of the crowbar down against the bolts, trying to jam them back into place.

Sam said, "it isn't working. We need to do something else to make him go away."

"Do you have," Dean pounded at a bolt as it popped out of the hinge another inch, "a better suggestion?"

"Open the door. I'll shoot him with the rock salt. It should buy us a few minutes at least."

"That will blow away the salt too."

"But we should have enough time to put it back after we get rid of him."

"We can't do that all night."

"I know, Dean, but we have to stop what he's doing right now. At least it will give us a few minutes to think."

After a dramatic groan, Dean looked at Sam and said, "Fine. On three." Silently mouthing the numbers, he unlocked the door on two and flung it open on three, stepping back from the shotgun. The ghost of Cohenbash smiled from the doorway. Sam pulled the trigger and rock salt slammed into the abdomen of the ghost. It shrieked and disappeared. Dean was reaching out to shut the door when Sam stopped him. The little boy beckoned to him from the yard.

"Wait. It's him. Mathias." Sam took a few steps forward.

Dean shut the door, blocking the ghost from view and dumping salt in a line across the threshold. "Are you crazy? You can't go out there."

"I think he wants to help."

"You don't know that!"

"And you don't know that I'm wrong! Maybe he can tell us where the grave is. We need to know."

"We'll find it tomorrow. When it's safe."

"How? We have no idea where it is. There's tons of snow on the ground, so even if there is a marker, we won't be able to see it. We don't even know if it will stop snowing tomorrow. For all we know, it could snow all day. Then what do we do?"

"Bobby will be here by tomorrow morning. He'll help us."

"Not if it doesn't stop snowing! He can't drive here through a blizzard."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, unable to think of a response. When Sam crossed his arms in front of his chest and raised his eyebrows, Dean said, "You are not going out there. Cause I said you aren't. End of argument."

A gentle tap at the window stopped Sam's retort. He took the few steps to the window and pulled back the curtain. Mathias stood outside, a slight forlorn figure. He smiled a little at Sam.

"Are you Mathias?" Sam spoke to the glass and the ghost beyond. "Nod if you are and you can understand me."

The ghost nodded quickly.

"Cool," Sam said.

"Get away from the window." Dean grasped his brother by the elbow and tried to pull him back, but Sam tugged his arm away from Dean.

"Wait. I want to talk to him." He turned to the window again. "Mathias, did your father kill you?"

There was another nod from the ghost, and a frown. Dean placed a protective hand on Sam's shoulder, but otherwise waited to see what would happen.

Sam asked, "Can you help us? We need to know where your father's body is buried."

Mathias placed his hand against the glass of the window. Dean yanked Sam back as frost began to form where the ghostly hand touched. When the frost had spread about a foot in either direction, Mathias used his fingertip to trace two words into the haze, reversing them so that Dean and Sam could read them easily.

STOP HIM?

Sam surged forward again. Pressing close to the window, he said, "Yes. If we know where his body is buried, we can stop him. He won't be able to hurt anyone else. I promise."

The boy watched for a second, considering. Finally he nodded, and beckoned them with a wave. He disappeared momentarily, then reappeared in the yard, still beckoning.

"C'mon. We need to follow him. Get the stuff. Or at least some way to mark the trail so that we can find the grave tomorrow in daylight. Let's go." Sam raced around as he spoke, pulling on boots and his coat, digging out the supply duffel and filling it with small shovels, more salt, and lighter fluid. He dug around in a toolbox and came out with two rolls of duct tape.

Smiling at his find, he said, "We can use this to mark a trail maybe. What do you think?"

Dean remained motionless by the window. "I think you have lost your ever-loving mind. We are not going out there in a snowstorm, following some little kid ghost who may or may not be leading us to the gravesite of the big bad ghost that wants to kill us without knowing if the kid is leading us into a trap." The words all rushed out in a single breath, and Dean gulped air when he finished, then continued, "Did you ever even consider that the kid could be working with Cohenbash? He's a ghost, Sam. We can't trust him."

"Why do all ghosts have to be bad? Maybe he's sticking around to try and help people. Or to warn them at least, about his father. Or maybe he's still around because he wants to avenge the rest of his family. We're the only ones who could help him with that. Isn't that what this family is supposed to be about? Helping people?" Sam jammed a watch cap onto his head and pulled on gloves as he spoke.

"He isn't a person, he's a ghost. Which part of that are you not getting?" Dean answered.

"But he used to be a person. And he was murdered. Think about it. He was my age. If something happened to me and I became a ghost, wouldn't you want someone to help me?"

Dean glared at his brother before spitting out, "Nothing like that would ever happen to you. I wouldn't let it. And you'd never become a ghost. Dad would give you a hunter's burial."

Sam huffed, exasperated. "You can't protect me forever. We're going to grow up and we won't always be together. Besides, accidents happen. It doesn't matter – my point is – would you want someone to help me?"

Shifting his feet, Dean refused to answer. Sensing a weakness, Sam continued, "We need to trust him just a little bit. I think he wants to help and we owe it to his family and all Cohenbash's victims to salt and burn his body. Mathias can help us do that, if we let him." Sam brought Dean's coat over to him. "We still need to be careful. I know that. But there's just, I don't know... something telling me we can trust him. I think he wants Cohenbash stopped as much as we do."

Dean shrugged into his coat. He shook his head and told his brother, "Dad is going to tan our hides if he finds out we trusted the kid ghost to give up the location of the grave."

"Nah. I say he'll yell like the end of the world is coming and make us do extra workouts for a month."

"Or he could leave both in a boat in the middle of the ocean and tell us we better find a way home in time for dinner." Dean took the boots, gloves, and hat Sam held out and put them on.

"Maybe he'll make us eat his cooking for a month." Sam pretended to vomit.

"No. We'd die from malnutrition. And he wouldn't be strong enough for a hunt if he only ate his own cooking for a month." Dean paused, then smiled a little wistfully. "It's almost worth getting in trouble to get him to stay home with us for a month, isn't it?"

Sam smiled back. "Yeah, it would be nice to have him around that long."

Dean visibly shook off the mood, then started issuing orders. "Okay, you stay close to me, but not in front, in case I have to fire the shotgun. If I tell you to run, you drop everything but the crowbar and you get back here quick. Keep an eye out for Cohenbash, or for any tricks. We have to be fast and careful, Sammy."

"I can carry the bag so that your hands are free for the gun. But here," Sam reached into the duffel and pulled out a small container of salt, "you should keep this in your pocket."

"Thanks. You ready for this?"

"Yep. Let's go."

They walked over to the door together, and Dean motioned for Sam to open it. He did, and Mathias was still waiting in the yard. Dean moved through the door carefully, taking in the scope of the yard. The snowstorm had died down, but still whipped occasional bursts at them as they stood on the porch. Sam closed the door to the house firmly, then took a few steps toward Mathias.

He told Dean, "I'm going to try talking to him again. Don't freak out."

"I don't freak out. I react to danger."

"You know what I mean. Just... don't." Sam waved at the ghost. The boy beckoned to them from his place in the center of the yard. Cautiously, they made their way to him. Dean stopped several feet away, but Sam moved closer and spoke. "If we know where your father is buried, we can stop him from hurting more people. I'm sorry he hurt the rest of your family. Can you show us?"

Mathias nodded, then disappeared. He reappeared about twenty feet away, at the edge of the woods.

Sam echoed Dean's earlier question. "Are you ready for this?"

Dean frowned. "No. But we're going anyway. Be careful and remember what I said."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine. Supernatural and the characters therein belong to the actors, writers, directors, producers, and technicians that bring it to life. Rated T (just in case). **

**Reviews and criticism are always welcome if you have the time. Many thanks to those who have reviewed!**

**A/N Today's chapter is a little short - sorry! Look at it this way, it gives you more time to enjoy what is (hopefully) your day off! Only one or two more chapters to go after this.  
><strong>

Chapter Four

Tramping through the woods in a snowstorm following a ghost was neither the easiest nor the smartest thing they had ever done. But it also wasn't the hardest. Their breath plumed out in front of them, and they both kept talking to a minimum. Mathias led them through the trees by appearing ahead of them, disappearing when they neared. The storm continued around them, muffled somewhat by the pine and evergreen woods they tromped through. Snow on the ground was deep, and Dean worried that if they were attacked it would be a hindrance. Sam was lighter, so he didn't sink as often, but when he did, the snow reached his thighs. Dean sank more often than not, usually up to his knees.

"This is a pain in the ass," he said after sinking into the snow what seemed like the hundredth time.

"Too bad we don't have snowshoes. They would have been useful." Sam grunted as he hoisted himself over a fallen trunk and fell into a waist deep drift on the other side.

Dean clambered over the trunk himself and held out a hand to his brother. He tugged Sam free and they both continued on. Mathias waited just ahead of them. Off to the side, Dean noticed ice sheets forming over a running stream.

"Hey, be careful. There's running water under there, so it's not completely frozen."

"I see it. Maybe we're getting close." Sam walked closer to the ghost. "Is it close, Mathias? Are we almost there?"

The apparition of the boy wavered slightly as he smiled and waved them on, encouraging.

"I cannot believe we are doing this. Dad is going to kill us when he finds out. If Bobby doesn't beat him to it. Tell me again why we're following a ghost through the woods in the snow."

Sam answered, "Because it was better than sitting in the cabin waiting for something to try and kill us. We're acting, not reacting. Which is actually one of Dad's lessons, so he can't get too mad at us, right?"

"Do me a favor, for both our sakes. Don't mention that to Dad when – make that if – we tell him about this part of the hunt. Because pointing out that we were following his advice when we did this will only piss him off on about a thousand different levels."

"Yeah, I know." They reached the spot where Mathias waited. This time, the ghost didn't disappear. When they neared, he pointed down to the ground.

"Here? This is where your father is buried?" Sam asked.

The boy mouthed the words, "He's here."

Sam was pulling out the shovels when Dean asked, "Is he sure this is the right spot? I don't want to dig down into frozen ground only to find the body is somewhere else." Without waiting for Sam, Dean looked Mathias in the eye and asked, "Are you sure this is the place?"

The ghost pointed to a large evergreen on the opposite bank, drew a line in the air from the tree to a boulder in the stream, then to a mound of snow beneath a pine tree on their side of the stream.

"Sammy, let's see what's here."

Together, they used the shovels to clear snow off a large rock. Mathias stood behind it, gesturing to the ground.

"They used the rock here as a headstone?" Sam asked.

The ghost pointed again, and Dean said, "Whoever buried him must have lined it up with the other tree and that boulder as some sort of marker, just to make sure they knew where his body was without putting up a headstone." This comment drew a nod from Mathias.

"Okay, so now we dig?" Sam asked.

Dean grunted as he thrust his shovel into the snow and tossed the contents over his shoulder.

"I'm guessing that means yes," Sam said.

Two hours later both boys were cold but sweaty and quickly growing tired. Dean stood in the trench they were digging and stretched out sore muscles.

"This is worse than a training session with Dad. And that's saying something. Who knew shoveling dirt in winter could be this bad?"

"It's frozen, Dean. I think it makes a difference." Sam pulled his hat down tighter on his head and looked up at Mathias, standing watch by the marker. "I don't suppose you can tell us if we're getting close?" The ghost frowned and shrugged.

Dean muttered, "Great. Just awesome," as he bent to hack away at the frozen ground.

"It is getting easier, the deeper we dig," Sam said.

"Whatever gets you through, little brother."

They shoveled for another half hour accompanied only by the sounds of metal scraping against earth. Then Dean saw what looked like a bone surrounded by burlap.

"I think we got something." He crouched and brushed dirt away from the sack cloth.

Sam looked up at Mathias. "Is this your father?"

The ghost boy's eyes grew wide and he mouthed again the words, "He's here."

"Okay, good. So this is him," Dean said.

Head shaking no frantically, Mathias pointed to a spot behind them. "He's here," he mouthed and disappeared.

"Crap! Sam, get down," Dean yelled as he reached for the rock salt loaded shot gun. He whirled and looked for a target to blast. Cohenbash's ghost was across the river. While Dean watched, it walked over the water toward them. As soon as it got near enough, Dean fired.

He lunged for Sam and began pushing him up out of the grave. "Get home. Now. Move." His brother struggled and pushed back.

"No. We need to uncover the body, fast. There's no time to argue. Come on!" Sam ducked down and began frantically pushing dirt away from the cloth cover skeleton.

"Dammit, Sam. You promised." In spite of his words, Dean went back to work uncovering the body.

"I promised to watch your back. That's what I'm doing. How long do you think we have before he gets back?"

"I'm not sure. He left us alone for a while. But that could be because he couldn't find us. Or it could be that he was just waiting."

A minute or two later, enough of the skeleton was exposed to make Dean happy. He boosted Sam out of the grave, then hoisted himself out. While Dean stood guard with the shotgun, Sam salted the grave down and dumped lighter fluid on it. He was holding his hand out for Dean's lighter when Cohenbash appeared right behind him. The ghost grabbed Sam by the shoulders and chucked him across the clearing where he hit a tree with a crunch that made Dean sick to his stomach. His body dropped bonelessly to the ground.

Dean fired at the ghost even as he shouted his brother's name. Once Cohenbash disappeared, he ran to Sam.

"Hey, Sammy. Wake up. Come on, buddy, you have to get up." He checked Sam for broken bones. Relieved not to find any, he tried to figure out why his brother was still unconscious. When he found a lump the size of an egg on Sam's head under the cap, he prayed it was only a concussion.

"Okay, first order of business, get rid of the ghost, then we get you home." Dean waded through the snow back toward the grave, fumbling in his pocket for a lighter with one hand while keeping a tight grip on the shotgun with the other. "Gotta make this fast before that Poltergeist movie extra wannabe comes back."

He never made it to the grave. Cohenbash was suddenly directly in front of him. Dean moved forward just as Cohenbash shoved him back. There was a sensation of flying, the thud of impact, a desperate need to protect Sam, then blackness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine. Supernatural and the characters therein belong to the actors, writers, directors, producers, and technicians that bring it to life. Rated T (just in case). **

**Whoops, the day got away from me, so this is a little late. Sorry! I decided to publish both chapters today, instead of waiting until tomorrow to publish Chapter 6, since this one wasn't quite so timely. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading (and big thanks to my reviewers).**

Chapter 5

Sam felt odd. His head hurt, badly. His backside felt cold and damp, but the front of his body felt warm. He couldn't move and the world was darkness. And it smelled like Dean. Breathing in deeply, Sam tried to assess what was wrong with him. Light peeked through at the periphery of his vision. When he tried to move, his muscles and limbs responded, they just felt weighted down. So he knew he was neither blind, nor paralyzed. He remembered the ghost showing up and tossing him into a tree. Suddenly all the clues clicked in his head. He was lying in the snow and Dean was unconscious on top of him. His brother's body was warding off both the cold and the ghost. Now that he understood what was going on, Sam had an easier time figuring out what he needed to do next. The ghost had to be around still, or Dean would be in the process of dragging him back to the cabin, not draped over him staving off hypothermia.

That meant the first order of business was setting the bones alight. Sam turned his head to the side, looking around carefully. He spotted the shotgun about a dozen feet away, halfway between him and the grave. After rolling Dean's weight off his torso, he dug through the pockets of his brother's coat for the lighter.

"Dammit," he cursed when he couldn't find it. But he knew there were matches in the duffel bag. He just had to find them. Watching for the ghost, Sam checked Dean quickly. His brother was cold, but his heartbeat was strong. There were scrapes on his face and some blood on the snow beneath Dean's shoulder. Sam knew the best thing he could do was torch the ghost and get Dean home fast. Stumbling, he made his way over to the shotgun and picked it up, automatically checking to see if it was loaded. He pulled the spent shell out and replaced it with one from his pocket. The duffel sat at the edge of the grave, lightly covered by a layer of snow. The bones inside the grave were also covered, but Sam hoped that wouldn't make a difference. He began to search the duffel for the matches. His hand closed on a large container of salt just as an axe swung down by his head.

Without looking, he flipped the container open and swung it at the ghost, shouting, "Go away!"

Feeling his heart race, he dove back to the duffel, desperate now to find the matches. The salt didn't work as well as the shotgun, because the ghost was back almost immediately, threatening him with the axe again.

Trying his best to sound like Dean or his father, he leveled the shotgun at the ghost, aiming for center mass. "Go screw yourself," he said as he pulled the trigger.

Instead of wrestling his way around the objects in the duffel, he dumped the bag out on the snow, searching through them with his gloved fingers. With a cry of triumph, his hand closed around the box. He grabbed the lighter fluid too, just in case. Not even bothering to stand, he flung himself forward, stomach to the ground. Barely at the edge of the grave, he poured lighter fluid down into the grave, emptying the bottle. Fingers trembling, he pushed the box of matches open and struck one against the side. It lit and he waited a relieved second for the lighter fluid to catch. But nothing happened. Sam peered down into the grave and saw that the snow had extinguished the match before it could light anything.

He rolled as Cohenbash swung the axe in his direction, fighting not to panic. His roll ended with him near one of the shovels, which he grabbed and swung at the ghost. When it disappeared, he lowered the shovel into the grave and scraped away as much snow as he could. The ghost reappeared, seemed to consider him for a moment, then began marching toward Dean's unconscious form. Real panic hit Sam as he watched the ghost advance on his brother. Yanking the shovel out of the hole, he scrambled for the matchbox. He dropped the first match before he could light it and fumbled for the second. Cohenbash was closer to Dean, smiling like a fiend. Mathias suddenly appeared, pulling on his father's shirt, trying to slow him down. With a swing a baseball player might envy, the ghost buried the axe in his son's chest. Even from across the clearing, Sam could see the blood spray, followed by the thump of impact and crunch of ribs cracking. Mathias slumped to the ground and Cohenbash braced his foot on his son's stomach so he could pull the axe out. Sam could only watch in open mouthed horror. Then Cohenbash lifted the axe back up to his shoulder and began walking toward Dean again.

Sam stood up quickly, shouting, "Hey! Over here. Come get me, you – turd. You killed your own kid, twice, why not come kill me? Or do you only pick on people who can't fight back?" Holding tightly to the matches, Sam waved his hands in the air to distract the ghost. For a second, hope flared. The spectre took a single step toward him, then another. But it didn't last. With a grimace, the older man turned and advanced on Dean again.

Muttering, "No, no, no," under his breath, Sam focused on the matches. He ripped the gloves off with his teeth, clenched a match between two fingers and struck it. Crouching near the grave, he tossed it at the clear area he'd made with the shovel. It arced and went out. Cohenbash was standing beside Dean now, slowing raising the axe. Shuddering with cold and dread, Sam lit the next match, then shoved it at the cardboard box of matches in his hand. When the edges of the box caught, he flattened out on the ground, stretched his arm as far as he could into the grave, and dropped the box just as all the matches inside flamed simultaneously. A piece of the burlap caught the flame and then the lighter fluid Sam had poured on earlier accelerated the blaze. There was a crackle and a whoosh as the whole grave erupted in flame.

Sam looked up to see the axe's downward arc toward Dean's head. He tensed and began to run even as the ghost crackled orange. The ghost and the axe vanished before they could touch Dean. Sam scrambled through the snow to his brother. Dean was colder now, his skin pale and lips tinged slightly blue. After making sure Dean's jacket was buttoned securely, Sam grabbed the collar and used it to drag his brother over near the fire.

"Come on, Dean. We're going to use this to get you warmed up, then get back to the cabin. The ghost is gone. We got him." Sam propped Dean up by the edge of the fire and packed everything back into the duffel, including the shotgun. He put his own gloves back on and tried to figure out how he was going to get his brother back to the cabin as quickly as he could. Dragging him by his collar wouldn't work, the short trip across the clearing proved that. Sam's arms ached from the strain, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, his head throbbed for attention as well. But Dean had been knocked out and unconscious in the snow for who knew how long? Sam knew the only reason he hadn't frozen to death was because his brother had been draped over him, keeping him warm. Furiously he thought of all the lessons their father had taught them.

"Nothing. Nothing! What am I going to do?" Sam whirled helplessly, trying to remember something – anything that might help.

Books he'd read over the years came back to him. Jack London, history books, accounts on the Donner tragedy, journals from hunters. Whatever Bobby had lying in stacks around the house and anything Sam gleaned from the numerous schools they'd both attended. His brain rapidly sifted through all the flotsam until it coalesced into a plan.

Sam shrugged out of his jacket and placed it on the ground near Dean's hips. He carefully rolled his brother onto the coat and tied the sleeves as tightly as he could around Dean's waist. The slick surface of the winter coat would hopefully act as a sled of sorts, as well as protection. He lashed a bit of rope around the knot, to hold it securely. As an afterthought, he loosely tied Dean's legs together. He crossed Dean's arms, tucked his brother's hands into his armpits and tied them in place as well. With the remaining rope, he made a harness that he tied first around Dean, then around himself. After slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder and positioning the two shovels as walking sticks, Sam knew he was ready to try his plan.

Closing his eyes briefly, he gathered his strength. "Please let this work. Please." He sent the brief prayer skyward and took a step forward. It was hard to walk dragging Dean's weight behind him, but not impossible. The harness didn't dig in and Sam's head maintained only a steady throb. Happy that everything seemed to be working, at least for the moment, Sam started back to the cabin. The footsteps they made on their way into the woods were still visible, though filled a bit with snow. He set off, moving as quickly as he could.

The snow tapered off as he slogged through the woods, relying on the tracks they'd made earlier to get them both home. He talked to Dean while he walked about anything he could think of, hoping his brother would answer back. There were occasional groans, but Dean never woke. Sam checked Dean's pulse whenever he stopped and was relieved to find it strong and steady. But the Dean's shivering and cold skin worried him. He had to get Dean to the cabin and get him warm. He resolved to keep walking until they were back at the cabin without any more rest breaks.

An hour later, the sky was brightening and Sam hoped they were getting close. The headache from getting smashed into the tree had faded from his awareness. It was there, but inconsequential. His legs were trembling, threatening to give out, and the rope harness around his shoulders and waist had begun to dig in, if the burning skin was any indication. There were sure to be bruises later. At least sweating seemed to be keeping him warm. None of it mattered though, as long as he got Dean someplace safe. Finally, he saw what he'd been looking for: the roofline of the cabin. They were almost there.

"Come on, Dean. I can see it. You're going to be warm soon, I promise. Don't suppose you could wake up now and help me these last few feet?" Sam pulled his brother around the side of the house to the front door and tugged him up the front steps. He shoved the door open and tossed the shovels inside. With some careful maneuvering, he got Dean inside, then closed the door and laid down a salt line. When he tried to untie the rope harness, it was so frozen and stiff that his fingers merely fumbled. He pulled the knife from Dean's ankle sheath and sawed the rope away from them both. Blood rushing back through the bruised areas made him sway. After dropping the duffel and shotgun, he stripped Dean of his hat, coat, gloves, boots, and socks. Then Sam dragged his brother over near the fireplace. He started a fire, and while it built up energy, pulled off Dean's jeans and shirt.

"I'm telling everyone – including you – that you woke up long enough to undress yourself. Man, you weigh a ton. Maybe after this I can get you to lay off the bacon double cheeseburgers." Sam grabbed as many blankets as he could off the bed, wrapping them around Dean's still form. He checked the laceration on Dean's shoulder and knew it wasn't bad. Once he'd cleaned it and used butterfly strips to tape it up, he cleaned the scrapes. Worryingly, Dean slept through the entire process.

Satisfied that his brother was as warm and cared for as he could make him at the moment, Sam went to the kitchen area and took out two pots. He filled the first with water and put it on the stove to boil. The second he filled with canned soup. While he waited for everything to heat up, Sam went to the bedroom to change out of his wet clothing. Wincing at the welts the rope harness had raised on his torso, he grabbed dry clothes and dressed.

Minutes later he sat in front of the fire, trying to wake up Dean. When talking to him and slapping his face garnered no result, he tried gingerly tipping spoonfuls of broth down his brother's throat. Finally, Sam's anxiety eased when Dean began to show signs of life. Then he coughed, sputtering on a bit of soup.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was a harsh croak. He cracked his eyes open and blinked. "What happened?"

"Ghost knocked me out. I woke up with you unconscious on top of me, keeping me warm. I roasted the ghost and dragged you here. Come on, you need to finish this soup."

"What about you? Are you okay?" Dean tried to struggle out of the blankets, wanting to check on Sam.

"I'm fine, Dean. Really. Finish this soup up, and then you should probably take a warm shower."

"Yeah, sounds like a good plan." Dean took a taste of the soup, then out the spoon down. He stared at the bowl so long that Sam cleared his throat and looked pointedly at the soup.

"Eat. You need to get warm."

"Yeah, I know." He picked up the spoon again, swirling it in the soup. When he didn't take another bite, Sam started tapping his foot. Dean finally ate a little. Sam broke off the stare and moved toward the kitchen to dish out some soup for himself.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean called him back. "Thanks. I could've gotten us both killed. I screwed up. Dad always says make sure the monster is down for the count before you check on injuries. Life or death. I ran for you instead of following my training."

"Dean, even after the ghost came after you, you tried to protect me. Your last thought before you blacked out was to keep me warm. That makes you a pretty awesome big brother as far as I'm concerned."

Dean shook his head at his brother's words. "No mushy stuff. You should be pissed at me, you know? This is going to make it hard to be mad next time you screw up." He paused, then asked, "Why do you suppose Cohenbash didn't come after us while we were both out?"

Shrugging, Sam answered, "Mathias, maybe? Or maybe he just thought we were boring when we were both out cold. Or maybe he thought we were already dead. Or that the cold would finish us off. Who knows?"

"Yeah. Maybe." Dean gave him a long look. "Thanks, little brother."

"Right back at you." Sam smiled and went to get his own soup.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine. Supernatural and the characters therein belong to the actors, writers, directors, producers, and technicians that bring it to life. Rated T (just in case). **

**Just thanks!  
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Chapter Six

Hours later, Dean rested comfortably in the bedroom, dressed, fed, and warm. Sam unpacked the duffel bag and placed the shotgun on the table for cleaning. He went outside and shoveled the steps, as well as a spot out front in case Bobby managed to make it through last night's storm. There was a hitch in his breathing and his head was throbbing steadily, but he ignored it. The occasional training accident hurt worse. He debated shoveling the driveway, but decided his head at least provided a good excuse not to deal with it.

Back inside, he cooked more soup and made Dean eat, sitting at the table, wrapped like a mummy in blankets. They both sat up straighter when they heard footsteps on the stairs outside. Sam reached for the shotgun even as Dean struggled out from the weight of the blankets.

Bobby's voice called, "Dean? Sam? Are you in there?"

Sam jumped up and ran to the door, passing the shotgun to his brother as he went.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah, Sam. It's me. Are you boys safe?"

"What's the password?" Dean called out.

"Dammit, you idjit boys. There is no password. Let me inside so I can see for myself you're okay. Then I'll tan your hides for scaring an old man half to death."

"You're not old, Bobby." Sam pulled open the door and found himself enveloped in a hug from the older hunter. "Ugh, but you are ripe. Phew." He pulled away and wrinkled his nose at Bobby.

Their 'uncle' made a face, but patted Sam on the head as he walked over to Dean. He looked the older boy up and down, hugged him briefly, then sat. Dropping his bag beside him, he motioned for Sam to join them after he closed the door.

"So boys, let's hear it. The whole story, please."

* * *

><p>Their father showed up two days later. Dean heard the crunch of tires and looked out the front window. He motioned for Sam. They both knew the moment when John noticed Bobby's car parked in front of the cabin and worked through the implications of it. His face paled and he jammed the Impala to a stop. The engine cut off and he was out of the car, running to the cabin, leaving the driver's door standing open.<p>

"Boys!" He shouted.

Bobby, standing at the stove, glanced over and saw them by the window. Dean nodded to his unspoken question just as John raced through the door.

"Hey Dad, we're fine," Dean told him. Both of them moved forward to meet him.

In spite of Dean's words, John checked his sons over silently, looking for injuries or harm. When he found the lump on Sam's head, he pulled him into his side, hugging him and eliciting a wince. He touched the scrapes on Dean's face, then cupped the back of Dean's neck and gently squeezed.

"Tell me what happened?"

"Turns out the cabin was haunted by a ghost triggered during bad snowstorms. Sam and I took care of it. Bobby came to help out at the end." Dean shrugged and tried to step away from John.

His father, however, pulled Dean closer, until he was hugging both boys at the same time.

"A ghost? Here? Are you kidding me?" Shock showed on John's face, only to be chased away by guilt. "Did I screw up. I'm so sorry, son. I'm just glad you're both safe. You did good. I'm proud of you. Both of you." John's hand trembled a bit as he finally released his sons. "Bobby, thank you for coming out to help. I can't believe I put them in danger like that."

"S'alright, John. Dean and Sam took care of it before I got here really. The snowstorm slowed me down. The salt and burn was finished by the time I showed up. Mostly been catching up with the boys and a vacation for me." Bobby turned back to the stove and focused intently on the chili he was making.

John smiled at his sons. "Will you tell me about the hunt? I'd like to know what you did."

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. Dean smiled, then told his father, "It was a pretty simple case, Dad. Once we figured out there was a ghost, Sam and I went to the library, figured out who it was, then salted and burned the body. Just like you taught us. No big deal."

Bobby glanced over at Sam, raising his eyebrows. The youngster pressed his lips together and shrugged a little. They would follow Dean's lead on this.

"It's a big deal to me, Dean. I'd like to hear about it. Why don't you boys help me get my gear from the car, and you can tell me about the ghost."

* * *

><p>Late that night, after his sons were asleep, John carried a beer over to Bobby on the couch.<p>

"What really happened, Bobby? I know they told you everything. Did Sam do something wrong? That's the only time Dean tries to keep something from me." John took a long sip from the bottle and waited for Bobby's answer.

"I swear, John Winchester, you are the biggest jackass I know. Those boys were in danger because of you, not because of anything they did. You're too tough on Dean. And why are you always blaming Sam when something bad happens? It's like you hold him responsible for Mary's death." Bobby looked over in time to see John flinch. He studied the boys' father for a moment then said, "That's it, isn't it? There's a part of you that does blame Sam for what happened."

John nodded, head down, unable to look at Bobby. Haltingly, he spoke. "I know Sam was a baby and isn't responsible. But a small part of me... if he hadn't been born... Mary and I were having trouble, even before Sam came along. I loved her and Dean, but things were hard. There were a lot of nights I spent away from home. When we found out she was pregnant again, and Sam was born we both tried, for the boys. It wasn't really working though. That night, I was asleep on the couch because I didn't want to face going upstairs and arguing again. If I had been upstairs, maybe things would have turned out differently. Or if Sam had never been born, Mary and I wouldn't have been trying so hard to stay together. I know it's really my fault she died that night. And the boys, I know she never would have wanted this for them. But I can't let it go, Bobby. They're my sons. Mary was my wife. I did love her, and I do love them. This life I lead, looking for what killed her, protecting them? It's all I have." His voice trailed off as he hunched his shoulders and buried his face in the crook of his arm.

Bobby glared at him for a minute, trying to process the guilty admission. "Sometimes it's all any of us have, John." He paused, phrasing his next words carefully in his mind before speaking. "You need to remember that they're your sons. They need you to be their father, not just their drill sergeant. And spending a little time with them once in a while might not be a bad idea, instead of chasing every single case you can find all across these United States." Then he grudgingly added, "Course, they're alive, in part, because of you too, so I guess I shouldn't be so hard on you."

"Tell me? Please. I want to know how Sam got the welts and the concussion. Why does he keep throwing blankets on top of Dean?"

Bobby told John about the Cohenbash, following Mathias, and Sam's trek through the woods with a chilled, unconscious Dean. If he was shaky on some of the details, it was only because the boys weren't exactly clear when they told him. Or so he told himself.

* * *

><p>The following summer, John left the boys with Bobby while he worked a quick case. On the way back to the salvage yard, he stopped at the old cabin where he'd left the boys a few months before. He hunted through the woods until he found the gravesite for the rest of the Cohenbash family, then dug into the loam until he unearthed the bones of a young boy. Gently, he layered salt and gasoline on what he'd uncovered. Before striking the match in his hand, he looked at the open grave.<p>

"I want to thank you for helping my boys. I'm sorry about what happened to you. Sam and Dean are fine, in part because of you. They both think you've passed on, maybe because of what your father did to you the night he attacked them. I don't know if that's true, but I wanted to make sure you could rest easy."

It was after dusk, and he glanced at the stars. When he bent his head to the matches in his hand, he saw the wavering form of a young boy standing nearby.

John gasped, then recovered.

"Are you Mathias?" he asked.

The boy smiled. He held up a small hand and moved his fingers up and down in a wave.

"I'm grateful to you." John nodded once, then lit the match and dropped it. Flames crackled and heated the air. Mathias slowly faded to ash.

On the drive back to Bobby's, John tried to think of something special he could do with the boys before they went together on their next case. When he pulled up to the house the next morning, Dean and Sam came racing through a row of cars, soaking wet and shrieking with laughter. Sam twisted as he ran and lobbed a water balloon right at his brother's face. Bobby was sitting on the porch, watching. John joined him.

"How long they been at it?"

Bobby shrugged. "About an hour. Got a bucket of ammunition here. They've got some hidden around the yard."

"What do you say we show them how it's done?" John raised his eyebrows and gave Bobby a look.

Bobby's answering grin was wicked. "I say that's a really good idea."

Both hunters picked up a water balloon in each hand and tracked the boys through the rows of cars.

Later, when the ammunition was depleted and the boys had eaten enough of Bobby's food to make their stomachs swell, John settled in front of the television with his sons. Bobby was in his den, researching something for someone. Dean picked a program to watch, then promptly fell asleep. Slowly, John became aware that Sam was uncomfortable. When he finally figured out Sam was uncomfortable being alone with him, without Dean awake to act as a buffer, he felt it like a blow to his gut. He was losing his youngest, losing one of his beautiful sons, all because he was a stubborn jackass who couldn't treat his eleven year old like an eleven year old.

John sighed, making Sam's head snap up from the book he'd pulled from behind the couch cushion.

"I borrowed it from Bobby. It's about folklore and legend. I'm studying." Sam held up the book as he churned out each excuse. A plaintive whine started on the word 'studying' that the boy quickly stifled.

"What? No. That's fine, Sam. Good choice. I'm glad you've got an interest in that sort of thing. Dean will need all the help he can get, since he can't seem to be bothered with research most of the time. It's good he's got you. You're going to be a great hunter someday – smart and strong and disciplined. I don't have a problem with you reading."

Apparently shocked into silence, his youngest just mouthed 'oh.' Dean rustled and turned in his sleep. Sam eyed him, but his brother didn't wake up.

John continued, "I was just thinking about you. Both of you. I know I make things hard, and I'm hard on you. I wish it could be different. Your mother was so much better at being a parent. But that – thing – took her away from us and I can't... I just can't let it go. You deserved your mother in your life, Sam. No matter how much I love you," at this, he stopped and looked at Sam closely. Gently, he reached out and placed his hand on Sam's head, stroking his hair. Still gazing at his son, he said, "I do love you, Sam. You and Dean. Very much. I want you to know that. I'd give anything, do anything for you boys. In a way, I do this to protect you. But no matter how much I love you, I can't bring her back. I can't give you a mom. The only thing I know how to do is find what killed her and make it pay. Do you understand?"

Sam nodded slowly, closing his book. "Tell me about her?" He looked hopefully at his father.

"Your mom?" John swallowed hard. When Sam just watched him, he asked, "What do you want to know about her?"

"Anything. Whatever you remember. Dean doesn't talk about her much. We only have one picture. How did you meet? What did she like to do? What were her favorite foods? Anything, Dad. Just talk about her, please." Sam scooted over so he was sitting alongside his father. John put his arm over the back of the couch, silently inviting his son to lean in. Instead, Sam put his feet up on the coffee table and placed his head on John's arm. He looked expectantly at John.

"What did you like about her the most, Dad?"

"The most? There were so many things... Her smile could make you feel like you were the most important thing in the world to her. You've got that smile. And she liked to sing, when she was doing something around the house, or putting you and Dean to sleep. Maybe that's where Dean gets it..." He kept talking, closing his eyes to remember the wife he loved, even still. Beside him, he felt Dean sit up and Sam move closer. John let the memories of Mary connect him to his boys and felt the pain of loss ease, just a bit.


End file.
